


Falling away from me

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is in an accident and suffers a traumatic brain injury. Chester wants to help him recover, but what if Brad won't let him? Will anything ever go back to the way it was? Or has their happily-ever-after been shattered by Brad's brain damage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling away from me

Coma is Greek for ‘deep sleep’. As if hearing that makes seeing his husband unconscious and linked up to machines that beep and pulse and help him breathe any easier.

The story doesn’t start here.

It starts with their anniversary. Ten years of marriage. Brad takes him for a romantic dinner and then they wander along the dark streets until they find a bar that isn’t full of drunken idiots and drink and dance and laugh and they’re so fucking happy. There’s a full moon in the sky, and they’re happy.

It doesn’t matter that people stare; Brad links their fingers together as they leave the bar anyway. Chester laughs and gives the warm hand in his a gentle squeeze, letting his husband lead him outside.

It’s cold and the cab queue is in sight. Chester lets go of Brad’s hand and hurries across the busy road, glancing back to see the other man step out after him.

That’s when everything goes in slow motion – when the bus doesn’t stop. When the driver doesn’t see Brad until it’s too late. He opens his mouth to scream, his brain tells his feet to move but they don’t get the message. He stands there, gawping and staring and crying.

And then, all at once, he’s pelting towards the bus, and he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.

***

He’s lucky not to be dead. From where Chester stands, at the bottom of the hospital bed, watching the doctors check monitors, fill in charts, he fails to see where the luck is.

They say he has sustained a traumatic brain injury. Which has resulted in a coma. They’ve warned Chester that if Brad doesn’t wake up, his brain could die. The chances of that happening are slim though, they reassure him, but Chester can’t hear for the blood draining from his head.

Once he’s calmed down enough to talk he stands outside and chain smokes his way through three packets of cigarettes and calls Mike. He holds it together pretty well but falls apart halfway through the phone call, his voice breaking and breath hitching as he says “he’s brain damaged, Mikey. He might never wake up.”

He wants to call the others but Mike says, soothingly, “I’ll be right over. I’ll call the guys, let them know what’s happening, then come over. Okay?”

Chester nods and sniffs, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, “Okay. Thanks Mike.”

Later, they five of them crowd around Brad’s bed and pray. To their different Gods. Chester never believed in religion, but Brad did, so he prays to Brad’s God instead. Begs him to let his husband wake up, begs him not to take him away now. Prays for a happily ever after. Amen.

A doctor walks in and, probably, wants to tell them to get out. Visiting hours are over. But, instead, he says “Talk to him.”

Rob looks up “What?”

“Talk to him. There’s a chance he can hear you.”

Chester starts first, awkward rambling about the weather and the sunset he watched as he smoked at the entrance of the hospital. He talks about the horrible hospital food and Dave agrees with him, saying the potato tastes like paper and that Brad’s lucky he doesn’t have to eat it.

Mike laughs and calls them both lazy, says there’s a diner across the street. And Joe says, “Yeah but that means walking.”

And Rob says, “Yeah. Plus, the stuff here is free if you’re visiting.”

And they all laugh. It’s as if everything is okay. But then the ventilator gasps and they all plummet back to reality.

Nothing is okay. And there’s a chance it won’t be ever again.

***

Chester shows up every day religiously. He can’t take sitting at home by himself. The silence drives him crazy.

There’s no sound but the hiss of the ventilator and beep of the monitors that show Brad’s heart rate, his blood pressure. There are signs everywhere that he’s alive, he’s just trapped inside himself.

Unconsciously, Chester starts to sing quietly. One of their own songs because he’s sure that’ll get some response. Just as he breaks into the second verse of Pushing Me Away Brad turns his head toward the sound.

Chester stops, his voice faltering. “Brad? Oh God I know you can hear me so please wake up? Please?”

Nothing more happens.

Chester sits back in his chair with a soft sigh, “I know you’re trying, baby. I know.”

More nothing happens.

And the ventilator hisses.

***

One morning when he shuffles in, hands wrapped around a polystyrene cup of lukewarm coffee, to find the doctors unhooking the ventilator. He rushes forward “Hey!” he yells, “what are you doing?! Stop it!”

A doctor catches him before he could get to the bed, “Calm down. It’s okay, Chester. He’s stable enough to breathe on his own now. He woke up through the night for a few minutes. It’s a good sign.”

He wants to say something, but he can’t, because all he can do is cry with joy. “He’s going to be okay?” He whispers.

The doctor smiles, “He’s not out of the woods yet, but it’s a good sign. He’s one step closer.”

How can he not laugh?

***

Mike and Chester sit at his bedside the day Brad comes to.

He opens his eyes slowly and turns to look at his friends sitting beside him. A frown passes over his face and he murmurs with s voice thick with sleep, “What’s going on?”

Mike jumps up to call for a doctor whilst Chester rushes forward, taking Brad’s hand in his “Hey! You had an accident, remember? You’re in the hospital getting better.”

Brad jerks his hand away, curling his lip in disgust, “I’m fine,” he says and sits up, trying to rip the IV stem from the back of his hand. He works fast on pulling the clip from his finger, the sensors from his chest. “Get me the fuck out of here,” he hisses, trying to slide out of bed.

Two doctors and a nurse hurry into the room and grab Brad by the arms, forcing him to lie back despite his struggles whilst the nurse reattaches the sensors and the pulse clip, checking his vital signs quickly.

“W-what’s going on?”

One of the doctors takes him to one side with Mike, “It’s okay. This reaction is common. He has no recollection of the accident or the time around it right now, but that should all come back to him in time.”

“What…in time? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“With traumatic brain injury there’s always the risk of amnesia. But he will get better with care and attention. The people close to him just have to help out.”

Mike wraps an arm around Chester’s waist to calm him when his eyes widen and he bites his lip, “Will...what can we do?”

“Take him home,” the doctor says, “and love him.”

***

The day that Chester can take Brad home rolls around and he’s never been happier. He stands back and watches the nurses try to dress a less-than-happy Brad who argues repeatedly that he doesn’t have a home. Says he doesn’t live with Chester and bats at the nurses’ helpful hands. He relents, eventually, and gets to his feet, sliding them into his sneakers.

Chester smiles warmly and takes his arm, saying “Rob, Joe, Mike and Dave are dying to see you.”

And Brad jerks his arm away, “They...play music.”

“Yes!” Chester beams as they head out to the car, “So do you. Remember? You play guitar.”

“Hendrix does.”

“Not in this band he doesn’t, baby,” Chester says as he helps Brad into the car. He scurries around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat and fastening his belt. He leans over to kiss his husband but is met with nothing but a cold stare. “What?”

“Are you guy? Um...hay...guy...gay. Are you gay?”

Chester blinks. “Yes. And you’re my husband.”

“I have a wife.”

“No. You had a wife. You broke up with her, remember? Then we got together. It was our anniversary when you got hurt.”

“No,” says Brad firmly, “I’m not gay.”

Chester heaves a sigh and starts the engine, pulling out and away from the hospital.

***

The band members are sitting on the couch and the floor when Chester and Brad get home. They jump up to greet them and a shadow of confusion briefly passes across Brad’s face before he smiles weakly, “You play music,” he says, pointing at them.

He stares hard at Mike who shifts his weight unconsciously. “Mikey,” Brad says simply and shuffles forwards. The emcee envelopes him in his arms. In his ear Brad whispers, loudly “Chester is a gay.”

The singer blushes when they all turn to stare at him. Mike pats Brad’s back, “Yeah. You guys have been together for ten years, Bradface.”

“It’s Bradford,” he corrects him, “I don’t...I’m not a gay.” He leans in to Mike again, “it’s sick.”

Joe snaps, “Okay Brad that’s enough. You’ll remember this later and feel like shit for saying that.

Brad shrugs, says, “Tired,” and wanders into the study.

Chester visibly relaxes when he leaves, “Someone should watch him,” he says, making to follow him but Rob beats him to it.

“Chill. I’ll go. Have a beer, Ches’.”

Dave leads Chester to the couch where he collapses with an exhausted sigh, “He’s convinced he’s still married to Monica. Wouldn’t shut up about her in the car.”

“He’ll remember,” smiles Mike reassuringly. “They said he’d remember things in time, right?”

Chester nods. “Yeah,” he laughs, “he’s always been the strong one though. I’m not so sure I can play that role.”

***

Chester and Brad sit on the bed leafing through photo albums, trying to refresh Brad’s memory. “Remember this?” Chester asks pointing to a photo of them with the others outside of Rick’s mansion. “We’d just released the album.”

“Um,” says Brad, concentrating hard, “Midnight? Right? Something about midnight. Did we party at midnight?”

“Minutes to Midnight,” Chester smiles, “that’s what we called the album.”

Brad yawns widely and smiles, “We couldn’t decide.”

“Tired?”

“Yes.” He says and looks down at the photo album confused. He stares at it hard for a while before picking it up and taking it to the closet where he puts it on the floor, still open. Chester doesn’t have the heart to correct him; instead he gets to his feet and turns off the lights, pulling back the sheets on the bed.

He goes to climb in when Brad clears his throat. He looks up, “what?”

“I don’t need you to...kid...kid...baby...sit. I don’t need a baby sit.”

“Baby sitter.” Chester corrects him, “And I’m just going to sleep, not baby sitting you, Brad.”

“I don’t want you to sleep here. I don’t need you to!”

They glare at each other in the dark for a moment until Chester says, “I always sleep here.”

“No.” Brad snaps, “I’m not gay.”

The darkness is a blessing, because this way Brad can’t see how close to tears Chester really is. He sniffs and nods, “Sure you’re not,” he says as he gets up, grabbing his pillow and a spare sheet from under the bed. “Guess I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He trails out of the room sadly, whispering, “Good night, baby.”

***

He wakes up with a stiff neck and tears still drying on his cheeks. He mentally slaps himself and uncurls with a groan. He knows he shouldn’t be feeling like this, that he has to focus on getting Brad better but it’s hard.

Taking a deep breath he gets to his feet and climbs the stairs slowly. He shuffles into the bedroom as quietly as possible, trying not to wake Brad as he pulls out clean clothes and washes up in the bathroom. The guitarist doesn’t stir in the bed, curled up on Chester’s side, and it brings back the nightmares from the coma.

He disappears into the music room and picks up his acoustic guitar. He picks a tune carelessly, his fingers loose and missing some notes, sliding others. Eventually the tune becomes Anna Begins and he hums along.

“I’m cold.”

Chester jumps, almost snapping a guitar string in shock and turns around to face Brad who stands in the doorway, naked.

“That song,” he says, “something...birds.”

Putting down the guitar Chester nods, “It’s by Counting Crows. Come on let’s get you dressed.”

“Are you going to watch?”

“I’ve seen you naked hundreds of times, Brad, don’t act so disgusted.”

Chester digs through one of the drawers, pulling out Brad’s underwear and handing it to him. He grabs jeans and a shirt from the closet, holding them out too.

Brad takes them and says, “Don’t watch.”

Chester turns away, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at his feet, “I was thinking we could go to the beach today.”

“Why?”

“You love the beach.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “you said it was peaceful.”

“I don’t remember liking the beach.”

Chester sighs, brushing invisible lint from his jeans, “You wanted to get married on the beach. In the summer. I wanted bare feet but you said it’d be funny if everyone went home with shoes full of sand at the end of the day.”

“Married to Monica.”

“No, Brad,” Chester snaps, turning around to frown at him, “married to me.”

Brad stomps his foot and tries to pull his shirt on the wrong way. “Don’t look!” he says, “And we aren’t marriaged.”

“Married.”

“No!”

“Fine,” Chester says, “we’re not married. But we are going to the beach.”

***

And they did go to the beach. Brad acted out the entire time they were there, screaming whenever a dog ran too near him to collect a stray stick thrown by their owner. He glared coldly at children and walked away from a fan asking for an autograph.

The beach would be where Brad came when he needed to think. When Chester and his problems got too much for him. It was where he was happiest. It was where they got married.

But now it meant nothing. There was no connection.

The man that was storming away across the sand was not Brad.

And Chester has never felt so lonely.

***

Joe offers to watch out for Brad one day so Chester can go out to lunch for Rob. They go to a restaurant in town and Chester orders a fried breakfast with extra crispy bacon.

“Having breakfast for lunch is a little backwards isn’t it?” Rob smirks, sipping his coffee and picking at his French fries.

“Tell me one thing in my life that is forward right now.”

Rob sighs, “You should try kissing him.”

“And get a black eye?” Chester laughs uncomfortably, “no thanks.”

“He still loves you, you know.”

“I know. But I need him to show me.”

Chester isn’t as surprised when Rob leans over the table and kisses him softly as he thought he would be.

***

When they get back home Joe and Brad are watching home movies in the bedroom. Chester calls upstairs to them and Joe comes down after a while with a faint smile. “He’s asleep. We watched your wedding movie.”

Chester sighs, “How did he take it?”

“It confused him, I think. Then he fell asleep on me.” Joe smiles, “I’m gonna take off. He’s getting there, Ches’. Slowly but surely, like the doctors said.”

Yeah, Chester thinks, slowly but surely.

Alone, now, Chester and Rob sit side by side on the couch, knees pressed together. Rob slides a hand to Chester’s knee, moving it up to his thigh.

Nothing more happens.

More nothing happens.

Eventually, though, they’re kissing and pressing hard against one another. Rob’s shirt disappears and Chester runs his hands over the drummer’s abs, thumbs his nipples and earns a moan.

Too soon they’re naked, and Chester’s mind is screaming at him to stop but he can’t. They grind against each other, their skin sliding and breath hot. Chester can barely breathe with Rob inside of him, moans instead, and inhales Rob’s smell.

Meanwhile, Brad has woken up. He can hear the moans and giggles from downstairs and, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he should be angry but he doesn’t know why.

He opens the photo album he and Joe had been looking through and touches a hand to the photo of him and Chester on the beach, hands knotted together and smiles wide. Their suits are smart and their hair is neat and they’re happy.

They have rings on their fingers. Brad looks down at his left hand and the ring there, twists it experimentally. It matches the one in the photograph. But he’s so sure he’s married to Monica. Why would he be gay? It’s not right.

He picks up the photo album and pads downstairs to ask Chester but stops at the entrance to the living room.

Rob and Chester are...they’re...he knows what they’re doing...and he isn’t sure why it hurts so much.

He drops the photo album and they both stop, looking up at Brad and his deer-in-headlights expression. He says nothing, gawping blankly for a while, but then he whispers, “I thought...we had a wedding on the beach. And you said that sand in their shoes wasn’t a gift the guests wanted. And that they should all have a rock. To skim. But I thought it was too cheesy. So sand is what they got.”

And he spins on his heel, disappearing back upstairs and leaving the photo album, as well as stunned silence, behind him.

***

Brad curls up on the bathroom floor between the tub and the counter, crying loudly. He doesn’t really know why it hurts so much, or what’s going on, but he knows something is wrong.

Not just because of Rob and Chester, but because of where he’s sitting. He remembers someone else sitting here. He’s sure it’s Chester with his knees drawn up to his chest and tears on his face. Brad remembers a fight, an argument. Chester was high, again, and crying over all of the things he didn’t become.

He stormed away and hid in the bathroom and, when Brad found him, they fell asleep there, jammed in between the counter and the tub.

***

It takes Rob a while to kick the door in and when he does it swings into the room with a splintered dint in the middle. Chester pushes past him into the room and hits the ground running, crawling over to Brad where he is curled up and shaking.

“Hey, Brad, are you okay?”

Brad shakes his head and sobs, “You’re not meant to be doing that. But I’m not meant to care.”

Chester throws a heartbroken glance over his shoulder at Rob who hangs back in the doorway wearing only his boxers. To Brad he says, “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Rob sidles out of the room and downstairs and Chester pulls Brad close. For the first time since he woke from the coma Brad doesn’t resist and lets Chester hold him. And they cry.

***

Chester wakes up the next day to the smell of burning and a sense of dread. He jumps up off the couch and races into the kitchen to see Brad standing in the middle of the room staring at a small fire on the frying pan. The guitarist is chewing his nail and staring, confused.

Jumping into action, Chester grabs a towel, running it under the tap until it’s soaked and throwing it over the pan. He turns off the heat and wafts at the black smoke which fills the room. “Jesus, Brad. What were you thinking?”

He shrugs, “I wanted breakfast. I wanted…um…farm animal, pink, pig, bacon. I wanted bacon. And you were asleep. And I’m not meant to be talking to you.”

He goes to wander away but Chester grabs his arm and pulls him back, “We have to talk about this.”

“I don’t want to.”

Chester sighs, “Look. I’m sorry about last night. I love you, not Rob.” His confession is met with nothing but a blank stare so he shrugs, “but you don’t love me, yeah I get it. Want me to make you some bacon?”

Brad nods excitedly. “Extra crispy.”

Lifting the towel Chester peers at the burnt bacon in the pan, “Yeah you sure got that.”

They both laugh as he scraps the bacon into the trash and dumps the pan in the sink. “Okay,” he says, “let’s start from scratch.”

He pours fat into a clean frying pan and turns on the oven. “The fat helps cook it,” Chester says, “go get the bacon from the refrigerator.”

Brad concentrates hard and looks around the kitchen.

“Come on,” Chester says, “Think about it. Where do you get the milk from for your coffee. And your beer! Where’s the beer?”

“Next to the drawer with the bottle opener in.” Brad says slowly. He steps toward the right drawer and then reaches out, opening it to check. He closes it, then glances to his right and smiles at the cupboard doors that hide the refrigerator from sight. He opens the doors triumphantly and the fridge door opens with them. He scans it for a minute then grabs the bacon and holds it out for Chester who says, “Yeah that’s right. Now close the fridge.”

He pulls a few rashers from the packet and lays them in the hot fat, “You can’t look away or it’ll burn like last time. So I’ll watch it, you set the table.”

Without any help Brad wanders around the kitchen, finding the things he needs on the second attempt and putting them on the counter of the island. Chester makes coffee, one eye still on the oven, and slides it along the counter to Brad who takes a mouthful and splutters.

“Careful, Bradface, it’s hot.”

“That’s not my name.”

Chester nods and brings over the pan, serving the bacon onto Brad’s plate, “I know. It’s your nickname. Mike used to call you it at school.”

“Mike has a crush on Rob,” Brad blurts out.

Chester puts the pan in the sink and looks up with raised eyebrows, “Should have known you’d not forget the juicy gossip,” he laughs and Brad blushes, playing with his food.

***

Chester stands on the balcony of the bedroom, smoking. The moon is full in the sky and Brad is asleep, just like on the day of the accident. If he focuses hard enough he can pretend that everything is normal. He flicks his cigarette butt out into the darkness where it tumbles end-over-end to the ground.

He’s so angry at the bus driver. Angry at himself for letting Brad step out onto the road. Angry at the doctors for not being able to bring him back the way he used to be. Angry at Brad for not loving him.

He knows that it’s unfair, that it’s nobody’s fault. Accidents happen, and it fucking sucks.

Brad shuffles outside to stand beside him, leaning over the balcony and looking at the ground, “Why are you up here?”

Chester shrugs and lights another cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame of his lighter, “It’s nice.”

“It’s my room.”

“Don’t, Brad,” he hisses, “It was my room too before the accident.”

“I remember.”

There’s silence. Nothing but the quiet rush of the wind through the trees and Chester’s nervous flicking on and off of his lighter. “What?”

“I remember. Some of it. But...I’m not...” he slams a fist into the balcony railing and screams, “I’m not a fucking faggot, okay?”

Chester steps away and shakes his head “Don’t say that, Brad. Calm down.”

“No I won’t fucking calm down,” he yells, “I’m sick of being babied and laughed at and everybody is so disappointed in me and I know you’re all talking about me like I’m retarded.”

“Stop it.”

“Fuck you!” Brad snaps and swings his arm in a roundhouse punch to hit Chester’s cheek. The singer stumbles away and brings his hands up to shield his face. Brad shoves him hard and he hits the floor, winded. He gasps for air and curls up.

“Please, stop it Brad,” he begs, his chest aching.

Brad delivers a sharp kick to Chester’s legs then steps back, staring down at him. Chester takes the opportunity to get to his feet, staggering slightly. He grasps the railing and murmurs, “Thanks.”

With a confused blink, Brad snaps out of it and rushes forward to help Chester. “Oh God,” he whispers, horrified, “I’m so sorry!” He helps his husband straighten up and cups his face, “Are you okay?”

Chester nods, mesmerised by how close their lips are and takes a risk. He leans in and brushes his lips against Brad’s. Much to his surprise Brad doesn’t pull away and they kiss slowly. When their tongues touch it’s like their first kiss all over again and Chester hopes that this is it. This is what Brad needs, he prays.

When the kiss breaks Brad looks at him shocked, “You shouldn’t have.” He whispers, and flees back inside.

Chester follows to find him buried under a pile of blankets on the bed. “Brad?”

“I’m going sleep. Go to bed, Chester.”

And this time, it’s Chester doing as he’s told.

***

Mike shows up the next morning and gasps at Chester’s black eye and his limp. “What the hell happened?”

“I fell down the stairs.” He says and hobbles over to the couch, “Brad’s asleep upstairs. Feel free to wake him up.”

Mike takes the stairs two at a time and pushes open the bedroom door without knocking. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he prods the lump under the sheets.

The lump groans and rolls over, “Mom?”

“No,” Mike laughs, “Not your mom.”

“Mom,” the lump says, “What happens if you kiss a boy?”

Mike pulls back the sheets to see Brad’s face and frowns, “What?”

“I kissed Chester.”

“What a shocker.”

Brad flaps his arms frustrated and says “He’s a guy!”

“And?”

“And...I might be...you know...gay.”

“Really?” Mike grins, “You’re admitting it?”

Brad frowns and picks at the sheets. He woke up early and lay awake thinking about last night. About how he hit Chester and then kissed him. Or did he let himself be kissed? Either way, he liked it. His stomach and his heart warmed and he beamed at the memory.

Mike giggles childishly, “Does Brad have a crush.”

“Mike does.” Brad grins, “On Rob.”

Mike blushes and ducks his head. “We don’t talk about that, remember?”

“You should do what I’m doing.” Says Brad.

“What’s that?”

“Let yourself fall in love.”

***

Brad sits at the kitchen table staring at his antidepressants. He rests his chin on his folded hands and stares through the yellow plastic bottle. “Am I sad?” He says to nobody.

Chester is still asleep, and Brad is alone. He picks up the bottle and walks over to the garbage disposal, emptying the pills down into it. He leaves the empty bottle on the bench and blasts the Fawcett, filling up a glass of water that he picks up and takes outside with him when he slips out the backdoor.

Outside it’s quiet. He isn’t sure what time it is, but the sun hasn’t risen yet. He’s sick of antidepressants, and crying, and not understanding. He wants to go somewhere and be on his own. But nobody will let him.

Thinking about being gay makes him terrified. He can remember gentle kisses and hot, passionate sex but he can’t bring himself to do anything but shake. He wants to happy, but he isn’t. And he doesn’t know when he will be.

He sips his water and then places the glass on the ground, curling up on the bench and slowly falling asleep.

***

Chester wakes up to the sound of the tap running. He gets up slowly and trails into the kitchen, turning it off. The empty plastic pill bottle catches his eye and he picks it up, staring in shock.

“Brad?!” He yells. “Brad!”

He races out of the room and falls over half way up the stairs, skinning his hands on the carpet. He gets up and runs from room to room, gasping for breath. He jogs downstairs again and checks the front door, glad to find it locked. Hurrying through the house he checks the back door and steps outside, scared.

Seeing Brad sprawled out on the bench, a glass of water kicked over, broken and spilled beside him makes Chester’s stomach turn and he races over. His knees hit the broken glass and the pain floods through his legs. He grabs Brad’s shoulders and shakes him roughly “Wake up,” he yells, “wake up!”

It takes Brad a while to come to, but when he does he moans groggily. “What’s wrong?”

“What have you taken?!” Chester practically screams. “How many pills did you take?!”

“None,” Brad says, sitting up. “I didn’t take any.”

Panicking, now, Chester shifts and digs his fingers hard into Brad’s shoulders, “You have to tell me!”

“I put them down the...the shoot. For the trash. I put them down there.”

Chester shifts again, his injured knees pulsing, “What?”

“I’m not sad,” Brad says, but he’s crying. “I’m fine, Chester. I don’t need pills.”

The singer gets to his feet and stares down at his torn jeans and the blood soaking through them. “Yes you do, Brad. Look at the state of you. You are sad. It’s not forever. Just until you’re better.”

Brad laughs bitterly, “I’m never getting better.”

“Yes you are,” Chester whispers, “you are.”

“You need a band-aid.” Brad says, pointing to his shredded knees.

“It’ll take more than a band-aid to fix this,” Chester says, and neither of them are sure if he means Brad or his knees.

***

Chester barely notices any change at first. Brad just acts the same as he always has and they ignore the bruises still fading from Chester’s face. But then one day they’re sitting on the bed and Chester is reading out old articles about them, facts and rumours about the band and Brad starts to drift off.

“Tired?” Chester asks.

Brad nods and gets up, starting to undress. Chester turns away out of habit but Brad says, “You can...time...watch if you want.”

“Uh...okay,” Chester says and looks back up, watching Brad pull of his shirt, his muscles moving under his skin.

The guitarist climbs into bed whilst Chester puts away the magazines. He pulls back the sheets on the side that Chester wrote ‘BRAD’ on the pillow in marker. Chester flicks off the light on his way out of the room and whispers, “Good night.”

“Wait!” Brad shouts, louder than necessary, “Stay?”

Chester stops in his tracks and blinks, “You mean...I can sleep here? With you?”

Brad nods and pulls back the sheets. He waits until Chester climbs in beside him and whispers, “How are your knees?”

Chester shrugs, still in shock, “Kind of sore,” he says and settles down on his side of the bed, still leaving space between Brad and himself, “I’ll live.”

“I was thinking,” says Brad, “we could go to the beach tomorrow.”

“Really? Or are you just saying that?”

It’s hard to tell if he’s sincere in the dark, but he says, “I want to try.”

“Okay,” Chester yawns, “the beach it is.”

***

When they get to the beach Brad sits down and pulls of his sneakers and his socks, wiggling his toes. He looks up at Chester who raises an eyebrow curiously. Brad smiles, “Take yours off too.”

Chester rolls his eyes and sits down, taking off his shoes and socks and getting up again. “There’s sand in my toes.”

“That’s the point.” Brad gets to his feet and brushes sand off the back of his jeans. He bends down and picks up a handful of pebbles, passing a flat one to Chester. He digs through the handful, dumping them all except for once which he slides into his pocket.

He tangles their fingers together as they stand and look out over the sea. “I,” he stops, then starts again, “I can’t remember what I said. The first time around. But after everything you’ve done for me. And you didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have.”

“Brad?”

“I h-hate that I can’t remember our wedding. And that I told you we couldn’t do it in bare feet. But I love you so much. And I want to start again.”

Chester doesn’t have to say anything. He thinks of car crashes and fist fights and full moons and first time kisses and suicide scares and fires and thinks about how in love he is.

They both reach into their pockets and grab the smooth stones.

And at the same time, they cast them out over the sea.


End file.
